


The Hangover Process at Twenty-Nine

by dizzy



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 10:36:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5866144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzy/pseuds/dizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil's birthday is great. The day after his birthday? Not so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hangover Process at Twenty-Nine

The world is cruel. Light shines too brightly. The birds outside are too loud. Somewhere a ball bounces against a sidewalk and Phil wants to savagely poke a million holes in it until it never thwacks against the ground again. 

"I'm going to die," Phil announces. 

Dan is beside him, laying very still and staring at the ceiling. He looks like he's fighting a losing battle. Phil sympathizes, or at least his rolling stomach does. 

"Oh." Dan bolts up and then he's gone, down the hall. Phil's eternally grateful that he shuts the door so Phil doesn't have to hear. 

The sound of the shower starts. Phil manages to roll over in bed and pull the duvet over his head. Everything aches and hurts and throbs. He can't remember what led him here, but his thighs feel like massive bruises attached to his hips and from where he squints one eye open he can see an almost comically large dildo on the floor. 

He really, genuinely hopes that didn't go in either of them. His ass clenches at the idea and he is reassured that it didn't go in him, at least. 

Dan comes back a few minutes later. He's naked and wet and smells like mint toothpaste and body wash. "I made a mess," he says. "But I cleaned it up. And now I feel approximately one hundred and ten times better. Which still means I feel like crap. And I'm pretty sure I'm still a little drunk." 

Phil just grunts. He'd love it if Dan stopped talking. Not forever, just for the next twelve hours or so. Just until Phil feels human again. 

"I'm going to go make some food," Dan says. He walks out of the room then comes back. "Wait, maybe tablets. Do you need tablets?" 

Phil groans into his pillow. His body gives every indication that if he tries to put anything into it, everything from the night before will come back out with a forcible ejection. 

Dan apparently fails at translating Phil's non-verbal cues, because he comes back a few minutes later with a glass of tepid water and two tablets. "Come on," Dan says. "I'm gonna take care of you. Because I'm a good boyfriend."

Considering how much alcohol Dan let him drink and that Dan didn't at any point the night before remind Phil that some athletic bedroom endeavors are beyond their limits of physical safety, Phil is tempted to argue that. 

But arguing would involve speaking and it takes everything in him just to sit up for twenty seconds and get the pillows down. He has to clench his hands into the bedsheets and wait for the room to stop spinning before he feels safe in letting go. When he's sure the tablets are going to stay put, he slumps back down like a dummy with the strings cut. 

Consciousness is already fading back out as he feels Dan tuck the grossly sweaty sheets back around him with endearingly clumsy patting gestures. 

* 

It's after noon when Phil wakes back up. 

Dan's poking him in the shoulder.

Poke. Poke. 

Pause. 

Poke. 

"Phil?" Dan asks. "Are you dead?" 

Phil groans. 

"Look, you've been asleep for about twelve hours, I am beginning to get slightly worried." 

That Dan sounds worried is what gets Phil's eyes open. "I'm fine." 

He's not fine. He's not fine at all. He feels clammy and sick and his head hurts. 

"I made breakfast," Dan says. "But then you wouldn't wake up so I ate it." 

"I hate you," Phil rasps. Food sounds slightly appealing, more so when it's only a temptation dangled in front of him then snatched away. 

Dan saves it with, "But then I made lunch! Come eat, you'll feel better." 

"I don't believe you," Phil says, petulance in his voice. He can't tell queasy from starving. 

Dan reaches out and pushes Phil's hair back from his forehead. The touch feels nice, cool fingers on his skin. It makes him almost not mad at Dan for recovering so quickly. "Come on," he gently urges. "For me?" 

Phil sighs. He closes his eyes and ignores Dan for just long enough to realize he probably can't go back to sleep with the way his stomach is. 

* 

Food doesn't help much. A shower doesn't help much. More tablets don't help much. 

But they all each help a little bit, leaving him feeling about three stages below human when he curls up onto the sofa an hour later. He's opened his laptop just long enough to cancel his liveshow and now he's defiantly in Dan's crease. Dan allows it without saying anything. He understands that Phil is mad at him and accepts his fate with dignity. 

Dan's hangover is gone, of course. Dan's perfectly fine and chipper. "It's because I let it all out," he tells Phil. "Expel the toxins and all that jazz." 

Phil pulls his knees to his chest and buries his face in his arms. He's wearing his sick hoodie, the green one, and Dan's favorite pajama pants. He feels wretched. "I think I'm past that," he says. "Don't think it would do any good. "

Dan reaches out and tugs him over, letting Phil cozy up to him and rubbing wide circles against Phil's back. His actions and his tone are so sweet that Phil almost doesn't punch him when he says, "Hangovers just get harder as you age." Dan chokes on a laugh at the solid hit of Phil's knuckles to his side and adds, "It's true! I'm sorry! You can't argue with biology!" 

Then, because Dan is heartless under his exterior of boyfriendly adoration, he pulls up article after article and spends the next thirty minutes educating Phil on the process of acetaldehyde and acetate absorption with a slower metabolic rate. He only shuts up when Phil tries to get up and leave. 

* 

"Oh my god." Phil stands in the doorway of the bedroom. He hadn't really been of mind to give it a proper look before. There are things laying everywhere that would make his mother blush, including a bottle of lube still open with half its contents squirted out onto the shirt on Dan's floor that it happened to land on. "Dan, what did we do?" 

Dan snickers. "You don't remember?" 

"I remember parts. But they don't make much sense." 

"What we actually did doesn't make much sense, either." Dan walks past him and starts to tidy up. "You wanted to use the clamps but I was afraid we were so drunk you'd rip my nipples off so I suggested the collar instead, and then you tried to tie me up because you thought it would, and I quote, 'make you look like a pretty pretty present, Dan!' but we couldn't quite manage the coordination for that. So then I think I rode you while you were lying wrong-end-up on the bed - really glad we got that painting mounted, by the way, that would have been down for sure - until you decided you wanted to try something you saw in a porn - which you swore you'd give me the link - and ended up giving yourself a thigh cramp. Then we just, you know, fucked like normal because in the end we can't escape our true boring vanilla natures." 

Phil has his hands cover his face. He stays like that, still and slightly mortified, until Dan pries them down. 

"It was good, Phil. It was fun." Dan's smiling so gently with his dimples deep and his eyes so kind. 

Phil just isn't usually the one to try, to bring new things up - it's Dan, mostly. 

And to know the they tried some things Phil has been wanting to do and they went so horribly.... 

Yeah. Mortification. Just what he needed on top of the hangover. 

Dan wraps his arms around him, like he knows just what's going through Phil's mind. (Because he probably does.) "I love you. Go lay down on the couch and watch some immensely boring baking show while I put the sheets in the wash and clean up in here some." 

"I'll help-" Phil says, though it's the last thing he feels like doing. 

"Nope." Dan gives him a little shove. "It's your birthday weekend, still." 

It's a flimsy excuse but Phil allows himself to be pushed out of the room. 

*

Phil naps for another couple of hours. When he wakes up, he can hear the sound of Dan hoovering and the smell of dinner. 

His stomach growls properly this time. His headache is down to a faint throb at his temples.

"Hey, sleeping beauty." Dan stands in the doorway, watching him with a smile. "Want me to draw you a bath?" 

"Why are you being so nice to me?" Phil asks. 

"Because I was taught to show kindness to my elders," Dan says. He doesn't even have to move away to duck the pillow Phil throws at him, since it falls short way short of the mark. "Because I hate seeing you miserable and I feel bad that I'm the one that insisted you try for twenty-nine shots." 

"You-" Phil's jaw drops open, because he hadn't remembered that until Dan said it but suddenly the memories are rushing back. Phil's not even sure they made it to double digits, but so many in the span of an hour did him in well. "I hate you." 

"Will you hate me less if I let you use the last of my favorite bath bombs?" 

"... maybe," Phil says. 

* 

The bath is wonderful. Dan makes the water the perfect temperature, lights a few candles, lets Phil's favorite playlist go at a low volume, and then gets the fuck out to leave Phil to enjoy it all in peace. 

He still feels a little bit lousy but he's accepted that it's a fate he probably won't shake without another solid night of sleep. He puts the same comfy clothes back on and goes to find Dan in the kitchen. He walks up behind him and puts his arms around Dan's middle, his cheek against Dan's back. "I don't hate you." 

It's a 'thank you' and an 'I love you' and a 'you made my birthday wonderful even if I spent all day the day after being miserable' all wrapped up in one. 

Dan reaches down and covers Phil's arms with one of his own, like he's trying to press the hug in closer. "I'm glad. I'd be sad if you hated me." 

Phil smiles and kisses the nape of Dan's neck, where the hair is short and tickles his nose then he pulls away. 

"Hey," Dan says. "Where you going?" 

"To play Fallout 4," Phil says. "While you make my dinner. Because - twenty-nine shots." 

The argument immediately dies on Dan's tongue and he sighs. "Emotional manipulation isn't nice, Phil." 

"Twenty-nine!" Phil shouts back, settling into the best couch spot and turning the game on. He can definitely milk this for the rest of the day, at least.

**Author's Note:**

> [Read and reblog on tumblr!](http://slightlydizzier.tumblr.com/post/138414733819/the-hangover-process-at-twenty-nine)


End file.
